Hitman [h.s.]

| 2 |

I pull up to a small house in the outskirts of the bronx, the Bronx isn't an area I come to willingly. There's so much crime and gang violence that I limit my visits here to only when I have jobs.

The house looks like it's been abandoned. Some windows are smashed in, shambles from the roof are uprooted, and it looks like the house would collapse with a single gust of wind. And let's not forget the grass that could probably reach my mid-calf. I look down at the small piece of paper in my lap just to make sure I have the right address.

Everything seems fine except for the fact that there are people all around. Little kids are running up and down the streets, old men are sitting in their lawn chairs smoking and drinking at the bottom of their driveways, and teenagers are trying to be slick while clearly passing drugs into one another's hand. It's quite like Watson had described it, so I pick up the phone and give him a call.

"Wats-Mr.Watson," I fake politeness, "This neighborhood uh- well it's not how you described it."

"How do you mean?"

"Well there are people all around, it's not really like you said it would be," I accuse in the politest way I can as I see I group of men staring at me in my car.

"Of course it's not quiet, it's the middle of the dam day Harry!" His voice goes from the calmest I've ever heard it, right back to the angry tone I'd grown so used to.

"You said 2:30, and not a second later," I reply, quoting his words precisely.

"2:30 a.m. Harry," he corrects me and I can just picture him shaking his head at me through the phone.

"Oh uh-," I was rarely at a loss for words but then again I rarely, no I never mess up like this. I always do exactly what I'm supposed to do exactly how and when I'm supposed to do it, so I don't know what changed this time.

"I'm so sorry," I continue, "I'm normally so much more professional I swear, I just-I don't know what happened...," I trail off not really knowing how to justify my actions.

"What did I tell you about fucking this up Harry?" His voice gets quieter and less raspy and it sends chills down my spine.

"I know I'm so sorry I'm driving away right now so no one suspects anything, and I'll be back at 2:30," I rush trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible so I don't say anything else that'll make me look like even more of an idiot.

"And not a second later," and with that he ends the call. I let out a breath I hadn't even realized I was holding in. I don't have any more room for error with this guy, I don't want to see what he'll do to me if I make any more mistakes.

Now I need to find a way to kill 12 hours. The hours before my jobs are always very stressful and antsy for me. Especially having all this free time until I have to do it, just leaves me time to think about it, and I hate doing that.

I pull up to my loft in Brooklyn and look down at the steering wheel to see my hand shaking. 'What the fuck is wrong with me?' I think to myself, I've only ever acted like this on the night of my very first job. But something about this one just feels weird to me, I don't know what it was, but it just feels weird. And the weird feelings I get in the pit of my stomach are never wrong.

*****
"I made nachos for dinner if you want some," Zayn calls from the kitchen.

I walk out of my room and into the living room which opens up into the kitchen as well. I wasn't too fond of the open floor plan in the beginning, but this was the only house I could afford so I settled, but now I'd gotten used to it.

"Thanks," I grab a paper plate from the counter and fill it with nachos. Zayn and I sit down in the living room as Zayn looks for something decent to watch on t.v.